


The Lady's Portrait

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, PWP, Painting, in which Alya gets bored of having her portrait painted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 09:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Posing nude for her lover's art is more tedious than Alya Lavellan had anticipated. She decides to liven it up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady's Portrait

 

“Hold _still.”_

Alya sighed and reset herself for what felt like the thousandth time. When Solas proposed having her sit for him, it had sounded romantic, a bit glamorous, even. She'd never expected it would be so dreadfully _boring_.

And, admittedly, her ego was a tad bruised that she'd been lying completely nude on the sofa for over an hour and he'd yet to do so much as _look_ at her beyond those brief, objective glances between brushstrokes. She was _beautiful_ , damn it!

“You know, we _could_ be having sex right now,” she said, carefully maintaining the pose he'd arranged her in as she searched his face for a reaction.

“ _Vhenan_ , is that all you think about?” he chided gently, a smile tugging at his lips.

Alya pouted. “No. Sometimes I think about shoes.”

He chuckled warmly, still intent as ever on his work.

“You don't want to, then?” she asked innocently. She let the hand draped over her hip drift inward, softly trailing her fingertips over her belly. She saw him swallow as she drew a slow circle around her navel.

“Hold still.”

She ignored him. She slid her hand up her ribs, brushing aside the fall of black curls he'd arranged over her chest. Her cheeks heating at her own boldness, she grazed her fingers over her breasts.

He _was_ watching her now, his eyes darkening as she played with a nipple, sighing at the corresponding throb of pleasure between her thighs.

“You're blushing, _hahren_.”

“You are making it very—”

“Hard?”

“ _Difficult_ to concentrate.”

“Maybe you're not concentrating on the right thing,” she suggested, trickling her fingers slowly, slowly down her stomach until they met the edge of the silken drape arranged over her hips. Catching his gaze, she dipped them underneath it.

The sound of a brush and palette clattering to the ground heralded his arrival as he knelt before the sofa, dragging her hips toward him and pushing her legs apart. “You will be the death of me,” he informed, drawing a soft cry from her lips as he took her in his mouth.

Yes. This was _much_ better than having her portrait painted.

 


End file.
